


Wrong (Right.)

by Tarlaith



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M, promptfill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 05:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5855962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarlaith/pseuds/Tarlaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya can't stop thinking about "It".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrong (Right.)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt:  
> Illya is interested in men as well as women but avoids men for two reasons, one: it's illegal and therefore risky and two: he wants to bottom. But since Illya is so large and intense he's sure that any man would assume that he should top; Illya's one male partner literally laughed at the very idea. As a result he's wary of what someone would think about a person like him bottoming so he just doesn't really bother.  
> But he eventually has a relationship with Napoleon and is unsure of how to communicate his desires. Napoleon can tell that there's something Illya is unsure of whenever they get hot and heavy. Eventually he gets down to the bottom of the issue either by Illya confessing or just figuring it out himself. Cue Napoleon assuring his big Russian that he has no problem with taking the lead.  
> Actual sex would be greatly appreciated and not too much angst, please.  
> Thanks in advance!
> 
> AN: I think this is how you 'take an idea and run with it' - without actually caring where you end up. Second fill for this prompt.

Napoleon Solo undressed too much.

Illya Kuryakin would need both hands and feet to count the number of times he's seen Cowboy naked already, and they have only been partnered for a year. Showers, hot tubs, bathhouses, skinny dipping, he wouldn't even know where to begin. Solo flaunted his body shamelessly any chance he got.

Although right now it wasn't his fault. They had come in contact with THRUSH again. To Illya, the idea of an “arch enemy” seemed outdated and horribly ridiculous but, unsurprisingly, the Westerners proved utterly incompetent in dealing with this nuisance on their own. The “birds” became more powerful by the day and the world was in dire need of a hero.

 _Under a Soviet government, this would not happen_ , Illya thought grimly. Sadly, he did not work for the Soviets right now. He was on loan, and a good Soviet soldier followed his orders. Even if that meant he had to rescue an insolent American thief. Again.

At least, THRUSH was getting more creative. By now they knew that Solo could lock pick his way out of a cell with just about anything. Illya was still trying to figure out just how he managed to escape a sealed safe with nothing but a shirt-button. Case in point, it wasn't really a surprise that they weren't taking chances anymore.

Cowboy also got captured too much.

But what annoyed Illya most was that he never took time to redress before attempting one of his daring escapes. Apparently, anything that wasn't an impeccable bespoke suit was not worth wearing. 

So when Illya barged into the remote research lab in the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro, the UNCLE-cavalry hot on his heels, the first thing he saw of his partner was his red, erect cock. _Again._

Illya knew it was merely an adrenaline induced reaction – his own hard-on was just this side of distracting – but he couldn't suppress the rush of arousal that hit him at the sight. His inner thighs started to tingle, and it wasn't unpleasant at all. Quickly, Illya squashed the feeling, because now was definitely not the right time to contemplate his inappropriate tendencies.

Cowboy was dangling from a chandelier. How he managed to get there would be a mystery for the ages. The mad scientist who THRUSH gassed with something to make him obedient was laughing creepily. He was also trying to pull a lever, probably to disengage the chandelier's mounts. Napoleon shouted something at the man which was lost in the roar of clanking crystal. The cluster trembled dangerously.

Illya fired without thinking twice.

As always, his bullets hit their target with deadly precision. The scientist collapsed against the lever and above him, Solo gave an unmanly shriek.

A split second later, the chandelier came crashing down. It fanned out like a golden cage around the fallen man's body, scattering shards and dust in every direction. 

For a moment, Illya's blood turned to solid ice. Then he was rushing through the broken lab equipment, dodging cultrate glass and falling debris, his heart beating a litany of ' _No! No, no, no! Not now, not yet, not Cowboy!_ '

A glimpse of white caught his eye. Skin. Smooth and pale like the first winter's snow in Russia, but that might've been from the cold, clinical light.

Cowboy stood by the fire escape. He cocked his head, sly and cool and _irritating_. “You do realize we had to take him alive, right, Peril?”

Illya resisted the urge to punch that grin off his face. Instead, he backed his “partner” against the wall. “Maniac,” he rasped. “Pleasure in killing is not right.”

He was talking about the scientist, of course, but Napoleon frowned. “You're one to –”

“You're annoying,” Illya cut in. They were already this close, it didn't take a conscious decision to lean down and press his lips to that bloody, red mouth.

 

\- - -

 

 _Tendencies_ was probably a bit of an underestimation. Most days he could look at men with the same stoic indifference that he directed at cars, gun barrels or devices about to explode in his face. Other times, the sight of a very attractive man would make his mouth go dry with want. The way they would turn the small spark of longing in his belly into fire, they would better be called _Desires_.

Illya had known about his _Desires_ since early childhood, because things like these you just _know_. It took him until adolescence to realize them, though, and since he had been with the Special Forces for three years by then, he knew to be careful. His father sent a letter from the gulag – it was a place he vowed to avoid at all costs. So while Illya was not ashamed by his desires, he was afraid to act on them. His tall built and family history already marked him an outsider, another cross on that list could very well be the end of his career. Puberty came with a lot of cold showers. Nights in gyms, once the _dreams_ started.

All that pent-up frustration, which his superiors fondly called “drive”, paid off. On the day he turned seventeen, the KGB offered him a job. Illya accepted.

He might have hesitated if he'd known what they'd planned for him – but his decision would probably have been the same. Which made what happened all the more inevitable. He had it coming, no matter how to look at it.

They brought him to Moscow, the Big City, for training. It was a camp just outside of town, run by experienced agents.

On the first day, Pavel approached him. He was a lanky boy, all skin and bones. Illya could have counted and just as easily crushed his ribs if he wanted to. Pavel's parents starved in the aftermath of The War, he said. Illya believed him. Genetic memory hadn't been invented yet, but even three generations later it would still be possible to tell whose grandparents went hungry in those harsh times.

Pavel was from Poland and spoke Russian flawlessly, even though he cursed less, which narrowed down his conversational skills considerably. Also, he had a habit of coming close enough to touch. From the second week onward, Illya couldn't go anywhere without Pavel following him like a puppy, an arm on his shoulder or a hand on his back.

One time, even lower.

They were at the shooting range like good little soldiers, practicing alone when all their comrades had already gone to bed, and Illya nearly dropped the gun when he feels clever fingers squeeze his butt. He turned, incredulous, and found Pavel far too close for comfort.

“Stop me if you don't...,” he whispered, huskily, leaning forward, and fell silent as their lips met. Illya surged forward, all but wrapping himself around Pavel, panting like the virgin he was. Suddenly, there was a wall to his back, and a hard leg pressed between his. A whine escaped his lips, which Illya would later insist did not sound desperate at all. And certainly not overwhelmed.

But Pavel pulled away. “We... should get back.” His lips were just slightly pinker and a bit puffy, glistering with saliva. He licked them enticingly, and Illya's dick jerked.

That night, in his bed – his roommate was somewhere on the other side of the Iron Curtain, getting shot at – Illya thought of that mouth and what it would feel like on his body. What kind of fire Pavel's lips and hands could ignite within him. Illya imagined kisses in the dark, and harsh, hot breath against his face and neck, his belly, his cock. His heart beat a heavy, desperate staccato against his ribs.

As he touched himself, Illya thought he might be in love.

 

\- - -

 

The nights were warm and humid this close to the equator. Illya didn't pay the darkness any mind as he left the lab, decidedly _not running_. Maybe he should've, because Cowboy had no trouble catching up to him. Someone gave him clothes. Pity.

“What was that, Peril?”

Illya didn't answer.

“You kissed me!”

Was that indignation in his voice? Wounded machismo? Or just... bafflement? Illya didn't turn to find out. He didn't even stop, and Cowboy panted prettily as he tried to keep up. Almost as prettily as he did in Illya's most luscious wet dreams, which he could afford to remember now that the harm was already done.

“Do you want to do it again?”

Illya _refused_ to stumble. He stopped dead in his tracks, though.

“Finally, a reaction. I feared you'd gone deaf,” Cowboy sighed, exasperated.

“What,” Illya said flatly, wondering if he had dropped into another reality somewhere between here and the lab. It was the only explanation, aside from being dead, and he wasn't quite comfortable contemplating that idea.

“Subtlety is not your strong suit, Peril,” Solo said. He must've been speaking in riddles because Illya didn't get it.

Apparently, Cowboy could also read minds now.

“I've never seen you do or allow anything you don't want. It's not hard to figure out you want to do me.” He leered, and Illya blushed. Hard. “That is your conclusion? You are a terrible spy, Cowboy.”

“You're giving me mixed signals, Peril.” Solo shrugged, like he didn't care at all for the answer. 

Illya snarled. It felt good. Familiar. “So now this is my fault?”

Instead of an answer, Napoleon kissed him. Again and again and again. After the fourth time, even Illya couldn't deny any more that he was not protesting.

 

\- - -

 

Back at the hotel, they were all over each other in a matter of seconds. As they were with everything else, this, too, was a fight. Illya pushed Napoleon up against the door, the wall, the walk-in-closet, as they stumbled their way towards a bed. They barely made it down onto the mattress.

By then, Illya's head was spinning. It had been _so long_ , the last time he'd been allowed to touch and lick. He could taste the sweat on Napoleon's skin, salty, and a faint trace of gunpowder. The solid weight of his body was a steady anchor in the swirl of lust drowning Illya and he didn't even realize that Cowboy was not struggling. He didn't seem at all perturbed by the hissing and groaning and responded with equal ferocity.

Illya briefly wondered where their shirts and trousers had gone. Then, all thought was derailed by the sight of Napoleon naked. It was almost like before, but still entirely different. This time Illya was close enough to run his fingers overheated skin. It was soft on his neck, and even softer on the inside of his upper arms. Illya bit it carefully and Napoleon drew in a sharp breath.

He grabbed at Illya, trying to flip them over, but he used his whole body to press Cowboy down – toe to toe, cock to cock. They both groaned.

Illya reached between them, rubbing their dicks together in his large hand, and kissed his way down Napoleon's neck, feeling the rapid heartbeat against his tongue. He pressed down, desperate for friction.

“Peril,” Napoleon whispered. “ _Harder_ , Illya.”

Illya drew back, growling. Napoleon blinked at him owlishly and pulled him down for another kiss. This time, it was all teeth, not gentle. Illya sucked Napoleons lower lip between his teeth and wondered what Napoleon's cum would taste like on his tongue. Down his throat. How it would feel to have that burning cock inside him. He could never stop these thoughts, at the height of passion, and every time the longing got worse. Something twisted inside him, because he would never know. No one could ever want him that way.

Desperate, he pushed Cowboy's knees apart and pressed himself in between. The sooner this was over, the sooner he could force those traitorous wishes from his mind. They could go on as before, he thought as the heat took over, and he could cherish this memory forever. Alone in the shower, where he could hold onto the tiles, working himself open. Imagining how it would feel to have –

Illya didn't get to finish the though because he came, hot seed splattering all over their bellies. Cowboy thrust up against him and followed, shouting. It transformed into a breathless laugh and languid stretch. Like a cat, damn Cowboy, always so damn graceful. Illya rolled off him. “What are you laughing about?”

“Peril, you really are something else.”

 _Yes_ , Illya thought, painfully aware. He knew. He _remembered_.

 

\- - - 

 

Pavel's kisses left a trail of fire on Illya's skin. They were in his room. His roommate wouldn't return from his mission. Covers and clothes lay scattered all over the floor. Illya didn't care. He'd been too far gone for a while now, painfully hard, begging “touch me, touch me, touch me _please_.”

Finally it looked like his prayers would be answered, because Pavel's hands slid downward, cupping his buttocks. Illya lifted his hips without a thought, and the other agent chuckled against his mouth. One playful finger pressed against Illya's anus, and he whined.

“Wanna take it all the way, _Illyusha_?” Pavel's purr shot straight to his groin.

It took Illya a moment to figure out what he meant, he had been to concentrated on his neglected cock. Pavel wanted to... he wanted to... Illya shivered, something hot blossoming inside his chest.

The finger pressed in, just a tiny bit, lighting his nerve endings on fire.

“Yes,” Illya shouted, surprised by how much he needed – _wanted_ – this, “Yes, yes, do it!”

Pavel sat up and stared. The light from the skylight made his green eyes glow like a cat's. “You serious?”

Something was wrong. Illya struggled to breathe against the vertigo and chose to ignore his sixth sense. “Yes. I trust you.”

“You...,” Pavel stopped. Gaped. “You want me to put my dick into you?”

Irritated, Illya nodded. “That was what you asked, right?”

“Yes, but... who would want that? I mean, it's perverse. _Disgusting_.” He laughed. Loudly. Hysterically. “I can't believe a mark – any mark – could actually want that.”

“Mark?” Illya tensed. “What mark?”

“Well, the -”

Suddenly, the lights flashed on and the door hit the wall with a loud bang. “What do you think you're _doing_ , Kuryakin?” Oleg, his superior, raged. Illya had never seen anyone this angry.

His shocked gaze flickered to Pavel. “We were monitored?”

Another laugh. “Yes, of course! Even the art of seduction needs practice. Wait, you mean you didn't -” His eyes widened comically. He backed away as if burned.

“You did good, agent,” Oleg cut in. “You can go.”

Pavel nodded, grabbed his clothes from the floor and hurried out. Probably to the nearest bathroom.

The door closed, and Illya was alone with his superior. Thankfully, his erection was gone. The heat, too. Instead, he felt sick.

His boss scowled. Illya tried to stand up, but was pushed back down immediately. One-handed, Oleg pressed him down. “That,” he snarled, “Is disgusting. And there are good reasons. What are the reasons, Kuryakin?”

“I...”

“Think carefully. This could determine your career.” Oleg's nails dug into his skin. It felt like they were drawing blood.

“KBG,” Illya gasped. “An agent never relinquishes control.”

“Good. Another.”

“It's forbidden.”

“It's unnatural, especially for someone like you,” Oleg agreed. “Only the most depraved of men crave it, and they deserve immediate execution. Are you depraved, Kuryakin?”

Illya shook his head, terrified.

“Tell me!”

“No.”

Oleg leaned closer, and Illya could smell his breath. It smelled of toothpaste. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes, I am! I am not depraved!” he shouted, not daring to push him away. He shivered.

“You're lucky that you have other qualities to make you valuable. Be thankful I arrived in time. If anyone else knew, you'd be dead by now. Do you understand, Kuryakin?”

Illya nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. Get dressed. If this,” Oleg gestured to his naked form, “ever happens again, I won't care how close your mother is to the party.”

 

\- - -

 

Depraved, unnatural, perverse. Wrong.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong._

The next time he saw Pavel, the other agent turned away in disgust. It cut right through Illya's distraught heart.

He'd thought maybe, just maybe, the affection wasn't faked.

 

\- - -

 

It was much later that Illya attempted to have sex again. A woman, this time, and he seduced her under orders.

Sex wasn't bad.

It wasn't good, either.

When she snuggled up to him afterward, he closed his eyes and tried to imagine a hard, solid, male body instead of her soft curves. He knew it wasn't fair.

But then, life never was.

The insufferable American was just another proof to that fact.

 

\- - -

 

He made Illya want things. Forbidden things. Things no other lover he dared to take over the years wanted from him. At first he tried to prove Oleg wrong, to prove _himself_ wrong, but his superior was right.

“You're too tall,” they would say. “Too intense. Too strong, too big.” There was always a reason. “This is just a one-time thing. I want you inside me.”

They looked so good beneath Illya, too. Sweaty and exhausted and drunk on afterglow. It was this good, Illya thought, and didn't dare to ask for it. Because that would be prudent. They had already given him so much.

If he could have this, Illya thought, laying his head on Cowboy's chest to listen to his heartbeat – _thump, thump, alive, here, safe_ – he didn't mind. He could live without knowing.

That didn't keep the dreams away, tough. Of Cowboy's compact body pushing him down against silk sheets. Of his long, pianist fingers probing inside, slick with lubricant or petroleum jelly or _anything else_. He didn't care anymore. He just wanted.

Wanted strong, capable hands all over him, the smell of sweat and gunpowder between them, their breaths mingling. Wanted Napoleon to wedge himself in between his legs, pushing his knees back until Illya is raised and open to him. Cowboy would thrust into him gently at first, because he is always so careful, and then progressively harder, lighting him up like a sparkler. Rocking into him, again, and again, angling his hips just right to – _oh God_.

Illya awakened with a strangled sob. The dream had been so real, so _erotic_ , that its ending seemed physically painful.

It took him a moment to realize that it hadn't all been a dream.

Cowboy smirked up at him from between Illya's legs. His sinuous, swollen lips were wrapped around Illya's cock and one finger was slowly circling inside him.

Napoleon lifted his head, dragging his tongue over the slit. “Sweet dreams, Peril?”

The finger wriggled. Illya stifled a whine and jerked back. Choking on panic. No, this was wrong, he was not allowed to want this, this was not what he wanted. This was what he _wanted_.

Napoleon sat up, surprised. Thinking. Illya's stomach lurched at the very idea of Napoleon thinking.

The Cowboy lifted a questioning eyebrow. “You're always quick to push me down. Does this,” he crooked the offending finger, the one that had just been _inside_ Illya, “disgust you?”

“No!” Illya shouted, too quickly for his own liking. He winced.

Napoleon looked confused. “I figured you wouldn't be, since you've been doing it to me. But if this doesn't disgust you...” Suddenly, his eyes widened. “Peril, is this your first time?”

Illya blushed hotly and turned away. For a quick moment, he felt the irrational fear that Waverly might barge in and see them like this. His future with UNCLE would be over.

Gentle hands cupped his shoulders. “Illya, are you a virgin?”

He wanted nothing more than to sink into those arms. To trust this voice. But he couldn't. “It's complicated,” Illya said instead, and got up.

“If you run away without explaining, no one will get a chance to understand,” Napoleon said solemnly.

It would be so easy to turn around now. Confess all his longings and maybe have them fulfilled if he was lucky, for one night. Before it became too weird.

Illya's heart clenched. Not to have the Cowboy in his bed ever again would be worse.

He left.

 

\- - -

 

The next mission – predictably – went horribly wrong. Illya was snappish and out of sorts, and even if that was nothing unusual, Napoleon was confusingly hard to read this time. And harder to look at.

They were infiltrating a mansion to get out a forged piece of jewelry – it was like the Three Musketeers all over again, but with guns – and they were so out of sync they bumped into _each other_ , knocking over a genuine Ming vase in the process. It shattered with a horribly loud crash.

Napoleon shot Illya an angry look and quickly shut the door on the terrified cat. She'd been sleeping on the bed. With any luck, the woman belonging to the approaching clank of expensive heels would blame her.

The Cowboy pulled Illya back into the closet and slammed the door just as the Lady entered. She flicked on the light and took in the mess disapprovingly. The cat meowed at her. 

“That's it. You just cost us half a fortune. No more sleeping in the bedroom,” the Lady snarled.

Illya almost didn't hear her, because he was too busy not thinking about how tiny the closet was. Or, better: how full it was. He was squashed between Napoleon and the door, carefully bracing his arms on the sides to not fall forward. He was acutely aware of his backside pressing perfectly tight against Napoleon's penis.

This was _bad_. 

Apparently, his partner reached the same conclusion, because he shifted, slightly. He only succeeded in pressing his erection deeper between Illya's thighs. _Wrong, wrong, don't want. Don't want._

“Sorry.”

But Illya couldn't hear him over the thunder in his ears. He moaned helplessly, and Napoleon stiffened.

“Oh.”

 

\- - -

 

“Illya, we need to talk.”

Illya tensed. They'd barely managed to make it back to the safe house, and he's exhausted, thirsty and probably bleeding from half a dozen scratches. The Lady in whose closet Napoleon probably figured out every naughty detail had nasty friends.

Before he could muster a reply, though, he was resolutely manhandled onto the sofa. The Cowboy disappeared for a moment and returned with two steaming mugs. One he pressed into Illya's trembling hands. It was just water, but at least it was hot. And it provided an excellent excuse not to say anything. He just had to drink slowly enough for Cowboy to get bored.

“Look, I'm not aiming for a heart-to-heart here, Peril. Just give me _something_ to work with? Or look at me?”

Illya's gaze fell onto the chessboard he left here before the mission. Black is checking White. He had been trying to find a way out of this conundrum for half a night.

Suddenly, the black Queen was plucked from the board. Startled, Illya looked up just in time to see Napoleon's red tongue dart out.

Illya's breath hitched in his throat.

“Do I have your attention now?” Cowboy asked. He touched the Queen against his lips like a threat. “You know, I was more than ready to concede the field to you. I like whatever you want to call this thing between us, and I don't mind bottoming. But what happened in the closet,” he chuckled, “made me reconsider.”

He waited for his partner to say something. But Illya stayed quiet – he was too busy trying not throw up. This was the end. He didn't want him that way.

“Peril, I need some answer here. Because this is serious, and despite what people say, I'm not a -”

In a matter of seconds, Illya was on his feet. He knocked over the table in the process and didn't care. “Why do you need answer if you have already made decision? Nothing for me to say.”

Napoleon frowned. “You think you don't have a say about what happens in our bed?”

“Bed?!”

At the startled reaction, the Cowboy's frown deepened. He was probably replaying their conversation mentally. His eyes went wide. “Peril, I am not breaking up with you.”

Illya's head reeled with relief. But Napoleon didn't give him any time to savor it.

“Since I probably have to put it bluntly to get through that annoyingly thick skull of yours: I am asking you if you want to bottom.”

“It's not done,” Illya said, spooked.

“Bottoming? So what about me?”

“You are different.” _Because you enjoy it. Oleg said no one could ever enjoy it. Lucky, depraved Cowboy._

Napoleon's warm gaze found Illya's. He stood up and stepped closer, into his partner's personal space. Laid a hand on his shoulder. The weight was comforting. “Do you trust me?”

“No.”

Cowboy smiled. “What I meant, was: Do you trust me _in this_?”

Illya had to think about that. Napoleon was more than just a partner, and more than just annoying. He was... a friend. More. A lover, perhaps? The thought scared him, on a weird 'it's-happening-to-someone-else'-way. As if he weren't the real one standing here.

But it was probably the closest he'd get to defining what's between them. Illya sighed, shoulders sagging. Closed his eyes. “Yes, I do.”

“Tell me what happened,” Cowboy requested gently, guiding him back down onto the sofa.

Illya could never refuse those eyes anything. So he told him about Pavel. About their first meeting and their first kiss, and the time Oleg stopped them from their first time. Of his disbelief and, worst of all, the _laughter_. It still rang in his ears.

When he was done, Cowboy's fists were clenched between them. His jaw set. He took a deep breath, calming himself. “Trust the KGB to take even the smallest comfort out of their agent's hands.”

Illya couldn't suppress the small spark of hope. Maybe 'they' were not over. “You are not repulsed?”

“Are you sure you want this?”

This. Them. _More than I ever wanted anything in my whole life_. Illya didn't say it. After all, the best way to make Life laugh is to tell it your plans.

“First times can be uncomfortable. Even if we're careful.” He glanced at Illya's watch. “We still have some time.”

Illya stared. “What?”

But Cowboy wasn't listening. He was already rummaging through their luggage. “Where did you put the lube?”

“With the lock picks,” Illya mumbled, mouth going dry as he belatedly caught on. His whole body tingled with anticipation. “We are really going to do this.”

“Yes, of course. C'mon, Peril, or I'll start without you.”

Illya didn't need to be told twice.

 

\- - -

 

Standing in the bedroom door, the prospect about what they were about to do hit Illya. _Sex. Penetration_. It was daunting.

Napoleon turned around, smiling slightly. “Cold feet?”

“No.”

The smile widened. “Come here.”

They have done this a thousand times. He'd felt Napoleons clever fingers relieve him of his watch, shirt, trousers and any other article of clothing he might have worn. But somehow, this was still different.

Illya's heart pounded loudly in his ears as Napoleon guided him to lie back against the mattress. They kissed, sweet and long and with far too much tongue. He could feel Cowboy's smile against his lips. “Relax.”

“I am.”

Napoleon's hands slid down from Illya's chest to his sides. Loving, warm caresses that were still so different from everything Illya had ever known. They lingered for a while, tapping his hip bone, and slid down to cup his buttocks.

Illya drew in a sharp breath. This was really happening. And didn't that stir up his blood. Now he'd know if they had been right or wrong, if he would enjoy being... fucked.

But instead of going further – finally _doing_ it – Napoleon stilled.

Illya's eyes flew open. “What are you -”

He was silenced by a quick kiss to his nose. Confused, he blinked up at his partner. Cowboy smiled. “You're not.”

“What?”

“Relaxed.”

Illya frowned in protest. “I am!”

“I won't hurt you.”

“I know that!”

“It's okay to let go.”

It was as if Napoleon wasn't even listening to him. Annoyed, Illya scowled. “I know what I'm doing, Cowboy. I _can_ do this.”

“Then I suggest you start enjoying yourself and _relax_ ,” Napoleon advised, grinning like a loon, and thrust a suddenly well-lubricated finger into him.

Illya hissed at the sudden coolness. “Bastard.”

The finger circled, stretching him. “I assure you, my parents were well and truly married before I was -”

Illya groaned low at the feeling of a second finger pushing into him alongside the first. “Cowboy.”

“Yes?” Napoleon hummed thoughtfully, kissing Illya's neck. The fingers were gliding in and out of him now, slow and stretching, as if looking for something.

“What are you doing?” He managed to make it sound like a threat. Napoleon chuckled. “Just...,” he hooked his fingers ever so slightly, and Illya arched off the bed with a shout.

“Found it!” Cowboy sing-songed. He slipped in a third finger.

“Don't.”

“Don't what?” He hit that spot again, dead on, and Illya knew it was just to make him squirm.

“Stop laughing!”

“What, no laughter in bed? Where is the fun in that?”

“Get on with it already! You are annoying, Cowboy, you –”

Napoleon leaned down to kiss him again, carefully pulled out and smiled. “This is about us. Not the rules, not any of your previous paramours, and certainly not about proving anything. Just us.”

He aligned himself, pushing Illya's knees up. _When did he lubricate himself?_ Illya wondered briefly, but he was too far gone to care about his appalling lack of attention. “You ready?”

“ _Us_ ,” Illya echoed. And nodded.

 

\- - -

 

Later, as they laid spent amidst the blankets and tried to catch their breaths, Illya felt sore. And sweaty. And exhausted and satisfied and happy and free all bundled together into something he could neither name nor aptly describe. Napoleon's solid weight squashed him into the mattress. Illya wanted to push him off, clean the mess he made from their bellies and sleep, but he couldn't move. “Cowboy.”

“Yes, Peril?”

The familiar nickname made him smile. _This is not so bad_ , he thought, and decided that there was no harm in staying a little longer. “Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Big "Thank You" to spikesgirl58 for beta-ing.


End file.
